A Dark Future
by Jed Rhodes
Summary: Time is fluctuating, echoes of a great battle; as it warps under the stress, the Doctor and Carrie Wright, still struggling with personal loss, meet a strange young man - named John Smith.
1. Chapter 1

**A Dark Future.**

--

For one last time, he faced the darkness, and showed no fear, though he knew what was coming. His own death, if he failed, or even if he succeeded.

For one last time, he stood against the darkest evil's the universe had ever produced, and saved them all. All his friends, who otherwise were doomed. All of those who relied on him to help them. The Doctor did help them – he saved them all, fought back the darkness. And for one last time, he fell, his body broken, his TARDIS shattered. Death came for him, and he let it come. He thought he would fall forever, into that darkness so deep and inescapable that no-one could escape it, not even him.

The darkness of death. He had avoided it. Tried to stop it. But here and now, his own failure was made apparent to him, his own arrogance in thinking that he could stand against it.  
And yet…

Even as he fell, he felt the familiar light shine, the familiar feeling as his body turned itself inside out and back again.

But as the feeling came, everything else went, and the memories that made him who he was left him.

Susan - gone.

Gallifrey - gone.

Rose - gone.

Bad Wolf Bay - gone.

Martha and Jack - gone.

Donna Noble – gone.

Jackson Lake – gone.

And even his own self was going, losing himself to that light, that change.

And all that stayed was the name, the name that changed him from jittery old politician to hero of the universe, the name that made him who he was...

The Doctor.

--

He awoke, alone and forlorn, no longer himself. He felt it in his very being, the feeling that he was not whole. He couldn't remember who he was.

So who was he? He set his fragmented mind to the task.

The Doctor, he thought instantly. That much was certain.

But that wasn't enough for him - Doctor... what, exactly?

Doctor Who?

He looked himself up and down; tattered pinstripe suit, brown, sports trainers, blue shirt, tie… all seared, as if he had been through a fire.

But he felt fine.

He looked up, at the blue Police Box that he had been lying next to. It seemed, somehow, very familiar to him, very old, yet very new, because try as he might he could not place where he had seen it.

He stood up, and placed his hand upon it, and it felt alive beneath his fingers, humming...  
He took his hand away from the box with a jolt. Through his mind a burning message had rung out.

DON'T.

He put his hand against the box again, testing a growing theory.

DON'T.

Now he was annoyed. Nothing could keep him from knowing what he wanted to know. Nothing should keep him from what he wanted to know. And to be fair, he knew very little, so it was only understandable that he forced himself to push that door open…

And a blinding white light seared across him…

--

He awoke with a start. It took him a moment to remember who he was and what he was and what he represented and why he represented it.

He was Dr John Smith, young country Doctor with a practice in a lovely little village called Stockbridge. He did it because it was helping, and because it was peaceful, and because it didn't require him to have any adventures.

Yeah.

That was right.

He smiled contentedly, and went back to sleep.

--


	2. Chapter 2

II

Dr John Smith was a hardworking, honest man, who loved his job and loved his country.

He was a tall man, with longish black hair, reasonably well arranged features, and he wore his typical silver-grey suit with a black waistcoat and a watch on a chain, set off today with a white shirt and a black tie. Some days, he would go for a walk and say "I do not know where to go," as if that was reason enough to go wandering.

At this moment, he was walking home, after a hard days work as the local Doctor for the little village of Stockbridge. Mrs Matthews had sprained her wrist and Mr Jacobs had dislocated his shoulder, not to mention the flu that the Dawson twins had come down with.

"Good evening Dr Smith", said Mrs Carter from across the road, a nice lady, but somewhat nosy.

"Good evening, Mrs Carter", replied Smith, politely. He was never one to be rude to anyone, if he could help it.

He crossed the road, took out his key, and entered his house: a small detached job that he'd bought as a fixer upper, which he'd then happily fixed up.

It had been five long years since he had woken up, five years that he had pieced his life together in. He knew he was a Doctor, and he found it remarkably easy to prove it. He knew his name – or at least, one of them – was John Smith. He knew he liked traveling, and had done just that, prior to settling here.

He was... content. Not happy. Never happy. But content.

That was about to change.

Knock, knock.

Someone was at the door – at this ungodly hour?

'I wonder who that could be?' thought Smith. He went to the door, and paused – could it be a reminder of his past? Did he want that?

He shook himself out of his reverie as the door knocked again. Whatever was behind that door, he'd face it.

He opened the door, and found himself faced by a tall man with long brown hair in similar apparel to his own, and a blonde girl in a dark blue dress.

"Doctor Smith?" the man asked. Smith nodded, and the man continued. "I'm Doctor Richard Bowman – may we come in?"

--

The Doctor flicked a switch, and sighed. Much had changed in the TARDIS. Much had altered. Nothing he wanted to consider. Nonetheless, it had happened, and he was forced to deal with it.

At least, he thought with some satisfaction, I didn't lose them both – he could take some small comfort from that, though not a great deal.

The TARDIS bleeped once more in protest, and the Doctor whistled, and tried flicking the dematerialisation switch again. It didn't work.

"What is it?" Carrie asked.

"Well," the Doctor replied, "there's an odd signal coming from Earth, circa the late nineteen thirties. Trouble is, every time I think about going there, another system on the TARDIS knackers up."

"Maybe the TARDIS is trying to tell you something," Carrie suggested.

"Possible," the Doctor conceded. "Or maybe it's a remnant of our last… incident."

They still didn't want to talk about Daniel. His death was like an open wound to them, covered by a piece of tissue – waiting to bleed onto the floor.

"Still, one cannot avoid the obvious forever," the Doctor said. "This signal has reached my ears and now I must deal with it."

He flicked the dematerialisation control again, and, this time, wheezing in protest al the way, the TARDIS headed where he wanted it to.

--

The Doctor could not believe what he was seeing. Nine feet tall. Bright blue. Lamp on top. The same sign – 'Police Public Call Box'.

"It's just a Police Box," Carrie was saying behind him, sensing his discomfort. "It's not a TARDIS, it just can't be…"

"But it is," the Doctor said, sighing. He knew it so well, too well, so that even the minor alterations in the outside did not faze him. He took out his ankh like TARDIS key, and opened the door to what he knew in his hearts was his beloved ship…

The inside was a mess, broken, shattered. The same theme his TARDIS had been using, but with everything damaged beyond repair, pillars fallen in, Time Rotor cracked, roundels shattered.

"Oh, my TARDIS, what happened to you?" the Doctor moaned, horror rising deep in his guts. "How could this have happened?"

Behind him, Carrie gasped in shock at the site.

"What did this?" she murmured. The Doctor sighed, and turned to her, and the look on his face told her, unequivocally – that was what he – that was what was going to find out.

--


	3. Chapter 3

III

"Do I know you, sir?" asked Smith.

"I should think so," Dr Bowman smiled. "We go back a long way. A very long way."

Smith stepped back, and frowned at his counterpart.

"I'm afraid, I don't remember you," he said after a moment.

"Evidently, Doctor," Dr Bowman smiled. "May we come in?"

The man stepped inside. Smith nodded, and indicated a seat.

"Please- sit down," he offered politely. "Tea?"

"Yes please," Dr Bowman smiled.

"No thank you," his young companion added.

Dr Smith went off to get the tea, and when he returned, he turned to Dr Bowman with a quizzical expression.

"Do you remember anything about your previous life?" Bowman began by asking.

"Only that I'm a Doctor, and my name is John Smith," Smith replied, truthfully. "Nothing more."

"No memories of home?" Dr Bowman asked. "Orange sky? Silver city? Lights above your head?"

"I don't know what you mean", said Smith, puzzled.

Dr Bowman sighed, and sipped his tea.

"I thought not," he murmured. He looked at his companion, then to Smith. "I have a gift for you, of sorts, Dr Smith."

He took a small book out of his pocket, and handed it to Smith. I was labeled, 'Five Hundred Year Diary', something which made no sense to Smith.

"It's a work of fiction," Dr Bowman explained. "It is written in diary entry form, for you to peruse at your leisure."

"What is it about?" Smith asked.

"It's science fiction," Dr Bowman shrugged. "I haven't read it."

Smith flicked through it and smiled. A nice gesture.

"Thank you, Doctor," he said to Dr Bowman, but he looked up, and the man was gone.

"Hmmm... very odd", he said to himself. He put the book on his mantlepiece.

'I'll read it tomorrow', he thought to himself. 'Then this odd day will make sense. It probably just has a note in it about our time together. Odd feller…"

He shook his head, and went to bed

--

The dream was always the same.

He was standing on one side of a fence. On the other side was a man in a long brown frock coat, with a floral waistcoat and black trousers, wearing American sports trainers.

Sometimes, this selfsame man would wear a brown pinstripe suit instead. Usually though, the man was asleep and silent. Tonight he was neither.

"Hello!" he said, grinning inanely at Smith.

"Hello", replied Smith, politely. What else was he to do?

"I have three questions: where am I, who am I, and who are you?" gabbled the man, in a high pitched estuary accent.

"I'm Doctor John Smith, this is a dream and I don't know who you are", replied Smith evenly.

"A dream?" said the man. "So I'm not real?"

"I have no idea," Smith answered truthfully. "I don't know who you are."

"Maybe I'm a figment of your imagination," the man theorized. "Or maybe you're a figment of mine. It's hard to be sure, you know, what with figments and dreams, and who's real and who isn't…"

"You're babbling", said Smith. "A great deal – and it's irritating."

"I know, I do that," the man smiled. "I always had a gob."

"Look, if you don't mind telling me what I'm doing here?" asked Smith. "I don't like having dreams I don't understand."

"Neither do I", smiled the man. "But you will understand. It's important that you understand."

The man's grin vanished.

"Then you will understand how I turned from this..."

And on that, the man exploded into flames, bursting from his neck and sleeves, obscuring his face and hands. And his face melted away, melting into a new face, younger, with long black hair that seemed to have a life of its own.

"...to this", finished Doctor John Smith.

Smith watched his double smile, and screamed –

And woke up.

'A dream', he thought. 'Just a dream...'

Who knew his subconscious could come up with such a horrifying vision. He didn't even know who that man was.

And with that, he fell asleep and did not dream again.

--

"How do you know it's him?" Carrie asked, choosing her words carefully. Her encounter with the Fake Doctor had taught her about regeneration, but it still seemed so weird. "He's nothing like you."

"Memory loss is a tricky thing," the Doctor replied, as he searched the wreckage of his other selves' TARDIS. "I died quite unpleasantly. Lost my memory for a while. Needed some help with that. Nice girl. Grace."

He looked very faraway for a moment, smiling quite blankly, and then he put a hand to his lips, remembering something (and Carrie could guess what), and then he kept working, pulling levers.

"Good woman," the Doctor said after a moment. And then he stopped smiling, for something very unpleasant occurred to him. Something that meant something bad. He went to the ruin of the main switch, and flicked said switch, to prove his theory, one way or another. Then, he looked up, as a strange… arch came down, all barbaric steel.

"Chameleon arch," he murmured. "Somehow, he used this on himself. Oh, you moron. Oh, what could drive a man to this…?"

"What is it?" Carrie asked.

"A device that rewrites biology," the Doctor said. "A device that turns a Time Lord - like me - into a human being. Takes his memories and Time Lord Nature and hides it in a watch, which, if opened, restores both to him."

Carrie raised an eyebrow.

"Bit mad," she said.

"Yes, it is rather," the Doctor said. "But what is madder still is this thought; why would he need to do that to himself…?"

--


	4. Chapter 4

IV

--

They were the most deadly foes in the galaxy.

An Empire of Evil, the worst Mafia family that had ever existed, stretched across a cosmos, infiltrated in every system, every organization.

And they still wanted more. They had built a device capable of conquering everything, and the Doctor – being the Doctor – was not going to stand for that. Because, typical of the Doctor really, he had arrived slap bang into the middle of it. So that, of course, is when he did just what the Doctor usually did.

The Doctor usually won.

Bad guys destroyed (he had tried to save them, but being Mafia, it had been difficult to reason with them), big bad weapon blown to kingdom come, job done.

Except that such a huge organization could not be totally destroyed. Some of them had Time Travel tech, and used it to chase him – using it to attack the TARDIS with exceptionally dangerous weaponry. He had fought them and died in the fleeing.

He had decided to hide from them, become human. The TARDIS, so badly battered, would be left to heal, and eventually, surely, his human self would be forced to open the watch? And so, for one last time, he faced the darkness, and showed no fear, though he knew what was coming.

His own death, and the fall of everything good, if he failed – and his own death, even if he succeeded, in a way.

For one last time, he had stood against the darkest evil's the universe had ever produced, and saved them all. All his friends, who otherwise were doomed. All of those who relied on him to help them.

The Doctor did help them – he saved them all, fought back the darkness.

But then, as his life slipped away, something went wrong. The TARDIS had been found, tracked again, and they were upon him. His fleeing mind struggled to remember how to save himself, but he was already dying, burnt and bloodied…

And for one last time, he fell, his body broken, his TARDIS shattered. Death came for him, and he let it come. He thought he would fall forever, into that darkness so deep and inescapable that no-one could escape it, not even him.

The darkness of death.

He had avoided it for so long… but he could not remember how long, because already his memories were slipping away…

No, he wasn't dying.

He was changing.

Even as he fell, he felt the familiar light shine, the familiar feeling as his body turned itself inside out and back again. He could not say how it was familiar, but it was, he felt it. He felt like dying and being born...

But it was a traumatic change, and it would cost him his mind, and then they would find him and kill him before he had the chance to save himself. So he knew what he had to do.

He summoned the last of all his strength, and used it to call for the Arch. He placed it on his head even as he changed, and let the memories slip away… the memories that made him who he was left him, and entered the little silver watch.

Susan - gone.

Gallifrey - gone.

Rose - gone.

Bad Wolf Bay - gone.

Martha and Jack - gone.

Donna Noble – gone.

Jackson Lake – gone.

And even his own self was going, losing himself to that light, that change.

And all that stayed was the name, the name that changed him from jittery old politician to hero of the universe, the name that made him who he was...

The Doctor.

--

Dr John Smith, happy as larry, woke up refreshed as a man could feel after having nightmares. He had a strong cup of tea, and decided he would leave it to his assistant Dr Carter to run the surgery today. He phoned him up and said he was feeling ill – which was no lie, he wasn't exactly on top form.

He wondered whether there was any point reading that little book Dr Bowman had given him, but he wasn't in the mood for fiction – and yet something made him think.

Yes, that would be something worth doing.

--

He looked first at the title – 'The 500 Year Diary'. A strange title, but then again, no doubt it would be science fiction – that was what Bowman had said, wasn't it? Science fiction. He flicked open the pages and read through a couple. Almost instantly, thoughts rammed through his brain. What was going on? Images of things he had never seen, and never wanted to see, echoed in his mind…

He closed the book.

DON'T.

What was happening?

DON'T.

Why not?

YOU WON'T LIKE IT.

Why not?

IT'S BETTER LIKE THIS.

Why?

DON'T.

Why shouldn't I?

DON'T.

Smith slammed the book onto the table in his drawing room, and snarled.

"Bowman," he murmured. Oddly enough, he felt like laughing – because the Doctor needed a Doctor…

--

The Eighth Doctor was waiting. He had said goodbye to Carrie – who he had told to wait for him in the TARDIS – and now he was sitting on a bench in Stockbridge Park, waiting for his future – possible future, he reminded himself sharply – self. He had his eyes closed, hands folded on his lap, when the possible future walked up to him.

"Who are you?" Smith said.

"Hello," the Doctor smiled, opening his eyes. He looked directly into Smiths and smiled.

"Who are you?" Smith snarled.

"The Doctor," the Doctor smiled at his possible future.

"Doctor Who?" Smith snapped.

"Simply the Doctor," the Doctor said.

"What do you know about me?" Smith asked.

"More than I ought to, by rights," the Doctor smiled again. "I know your history. Your past – to a degree. It's like a story."

"Then tell it," Smith demanded.

The Doctor smiled again.

--

Carrie couldn't help but worry. She couldn't.

The Doctor had said, in no uncertain terms, that out there, hiding from some big bad thing, was the Doctor – the future Doctor, a future that Carrie was not part of. She had planned on leaving one day, so this must be the far future, and in her experience, the Doctor was getting more and more… powerful. Yes, that was the word. He had, though you wouldn't think it to look at him, come a long way from fighting Cybermen in London. He was stronger. Daniels death had taught him that caution was not a watchword – fight 'til you can't. The incident with the other Doctor had taught him, as if he needed teaching, that he was not invincible, not inviolate, and indeed, that he could and one day would die, and become a new man. But instead of accepting that there were things he couldn't do, he fought that realization, and became stronger as if in response to it. More. Just _more._ Carrie was almost scared of him.

So, assuming that this other Doctor, this _future_ Doctor, was one from a long way into her Doctors life, surely he would have become more powerful?

And yet…

He was hiding.

Something that could scare this future Doctor into doing something _her_ Doctor said was painful and dangerous, was stalking that Doctor now.

And that thought terrified her.

--


	5. Chapter 5

V

"There was a species," the Doctor began, telling it like a story, "who were all powerful. They could see time and space and they could treat it like anything they liked – but because of their great leader, they had sworn never to interfere, only to watch and defend."

Smith was sitting, interested.

"Then, one day, there was born among them a man," the Doctor continued – only realizing he was making himself sound biblical after he said it, but he pressed on – "who saw this… this tedium, and became disillusioned. he hated it, so very much, that he and his people could only watch. So he stole a ship from them and ran away, far away, walking among the people of the universe, travelling… saving people from evil, sometimes. And then, one day, there was a fight. I don't know the details, but the fight was so great that the man thought that he was in mortal danger. To save himself, he removed his own memory of himself, and replaced it, and to all intents and purposes, became human."

Smith's eyes were wide at this point. He almost knew what was coming.

"This man, was called the Doctor," the Doctor said. "And he's you."

"No," the other Doctor said at once. "No I can't. It's too much."

"It's who you are," the Doctor insisted. "I am your past – you are my future… I have to help you."

"I am Dr John Smith," Doctor Smith said. "I am my own man – a human! And you… you're just some raving madman…"

"NO!" the Doctor yelled. "I am not mad, nor are you human. There is, unless I am very much mistaken, a watch in your home. An old, broken fob watch. Open it, and you will see what you really are."

"No," Smith said. "Leave me alone you… you devil! Never come here again. Leave!"

He pointed, the Doctor noted, in the general direction of his TARDIS.

"You know what you are," the Doctor said.

"LEAVE!" Smith yelled.

"So be it," the Doctor said. He stood to his feet, and walked away, but turned before Smith vanished.

"I will return," he said.

"LEAVE!!" Smith yelled again. The Doctor obeyed, and left.

Smith watched him go, and sighed. This was not how he had anticipated spending his time, or his day. Screaming in the park – so undignified.

--

The Doctor wandered idly along the park, considering the next move. His future self had to know he wasn't just a human, he _had_ to.

But if he didn't…

The Doctor had never once gone through the process of becoming human by Gallifreyan means. He understood the implications of it perfectly well – it had been created as a method of studying the human race up close and personal. But… it had never been… satisfactorily used. They were a relic, one that was only left on older TARDIS's – like his.

He could, of course, have just located the watch and opened it on his future self, but it was better for the human self to release its existence and return of its own free will to the Time Lord state.

He sighed, and stood up, then thought about the best way for his future self to be restored – then it hit him.

Carrie.

He took out his communicator – Carrie called it the future mans Nokia 3210 – and called her mobile.

"Hello?" he said, when she picked up. "Carrie? I want you to go back and talk to Smith. No it didn't work. Yes, I know I was wrong… what? Yes, I'm sure you'll work. No. Well, ninety nine percent sure. Ninety eight, at a pinch. Yes. No. What…? No, I'm fine, on my way back…"

And then, to his considerable ire, someone put a piece of cloth over his mouth.

"Oi!" he tried to say, but then he smelled chloroform. Idiots. Then, when they realised that the chemical was having no effect, they bashed him on the head, whoever they were.

That had the desired effect.

--

One minute she had been talking to the Doctor, the next, there was a muffled 'oi' and then a thump, and the line went dead.

Why she was running to Smith, she didn't know. Maybe it was because he was the Doctor, albeit a Doctor who had turned himself into a narrow minded human.

She reached his door and hit it several times as hard as she could.

When he opened the door, he recognised her instantly – and closed the door again. She wasn't having any of it. She forced her way in, and pushed him over.

"Excuse me…!" he said, annoyed.

"They've taken him," she snapped.

"What?" he spluttered; God he was young. Young and pompous. Great.

"They – being whoever you were scared enough to hide from – have taken the Doctor. The real Doctor, as in the one who wants to actually do something with his life," she explained, slowly and simply, as if talking to a moron. Dr Smith gulped, and sat up; then his eyes glazed.

"That isn't how it happened," he said.

He stood up, his hand went to his waistcoat pocket, and he pulled out a watch – a small, silver watch with intricate patterns set into it. Then, he seemed to come to himself.

"Why am I…?" he asked, looking at her and holding up the watch. She didn't know if he could hear it, but there was a faint whispering…

_Time… alteration… war… hatred… Daleks… death… monstrous… destruction… conflict… wake up… time… help… hide… wait.._

"Open it," she suggested.

"What?" he replied. "What do you mean, '_open it_', it's broken!"

"Open it," she repeated. The little watch. The watch the Doctor had told her about. This was it.

"Not until you tell me why!" he ordered.

"Open… it," she demanded, and the tone brooked no argument, no chance.

He gulped, looked at it, then opened it.

There was light.

--

Light.

He'd seen a lot of light in his time. Not enough. Not nearly enough, and yet he travelled on in search of it.

Darkness now.

He'd seen too much of that. Too much darkness for even one lifetime, let alone eleven.

There was memory.

Memory.

He had a long memory. Some of them were knacked up, some battered, some bruised, but then again, some were perfect, total recall, marvellous. He remembered a lot of things.

Some he didn't want to.

Carrie.

He remembered her.

Why did he remember her? She had left him gone away like so many other companions over the years.

And yet…

She was standing right there, looking at him, expectant. He remembered when they had parted… so _sad_.

"Hello, Carrie," he smiled. She smiled uncertainly.

"Doctor…?"

"Yes," he smiled.

"Doctor Who?" she asked.

"Just…" and for a moment, he remembered John Smith, confused. He remembered the _other_ John Smith, afraid. "Just the Doctor," he said at last, a touch of regret in his voice.

"Just the Doctor," she repeated.

"Yes," Just-The-Doctor smiled. "I'm back. Now then…" he clapped his hands together and rubbed them in anticipation. "What's up?"

Then it hit him. Why he had hidden.

"Oh, hang on…" he said.

Then the front door exploded inwards.

--


	6. Chapter 6

VI

Three figures, tall, long coats, and swords in hand, walked through the rubble of the front door.

"Doctor," one of them said. "It is time."

"That time already?" the Doctor smiled, and he pushed Carrie back. "Don't put yourselves to any trouble on my account, lads…"

He didn't talk like her Doctor – or for that matter like Dr Smith. He was newer, younger. Carrie liked him.

"So, you lot been waiting here… how long now…?" the Doctor asked.

"Long enough," the leader of the tall figures said.

"You know, I thought you would have just given up," the Doctor sighed. "I gave you a chance to give up. You lot oughta have given up – but nooooo… just gotta have a vendetta… well, you are a space mafia, so I suppose it's only fair…"

He was babbling. And yet, Carrie could tell he was planning something…

"Your time has come, Doctor," the first man said, raising his sword, and preparing to bring it down.

"WAIT!" the Doctor yelled.

The mafia man froze.

"Just one thing," the Doctor said.

The mafia man tilted his head. The Doctor smiled at him.

"Never let the Doctor get you," he said, and he kicked the mafia man in his stomach, grabbed his sword, spun it, then faced the three goons with a grin.

"Now then," he said. "Slightly fairer…"

The goons came for him, swords swinging, but the Doctor parried the first one, ducked the second, then rugby tackled him to the ground, before rolling off of him as the first goon brought his sword down, impaling his own ally.

"Zog!" he swore. The Doctor punched him in the face.

"Language," he admonished. Then he spun around, and delivered two lightening fast strikes to the last mafia guy who had been sneaking up on him. The mafia man staggered, and the Doctor picked him up – to Carrie's amazement – and threw him through the gaping hole that had been the door. The others got to their feet unsteadily, and ran for it.

"I'll be sending you the bill!" the Doctor yelled at them, angrily. Then he turned to Carrie, and gave her a grin.

"Morons," he said. "Never did see why they bothered trying, I only hid because it would have been inconvienient to keep fighting them off... Anyway… you are…"

She waited for him to speak, but he seemed stuck, looking at her with a quizzical expression.

"Carrie," she opined.

"Yeah!" he said, grinning. "Carrie Wright, brilliant! You were with Eight, weren't you…"

He stopped.

"He's been kidnapped," Carrie put in. "By those… mafia guys you were fighting. I know it."

"You think?" the Doctor asked. "I doubt it. Not the way it happened before."

"What do you mean, 'the way it happened before'?" Carrie asked, puzzled and annoyed.

"I mean," the Doctor said, leaning a hand against the wall, "when I was Eight, and I travelled with Carrie Wright, that wasn't what happened when I met my future self in this village…"

"Well, what did happen?" Carrie asked.

The future Doctor drummed his fingers against his chin, and sighed.

"If I recall, he left shortly after he talked with me. I never found out what happened to the future me, after that.

"So…"

"So what's changed is that this time, Eight has been captured before he could leave with you," the future Doctor explained. "Annoying really."

Carrie raised an eyebrow and sighed.

"Look, no offence, but you're the Doctor!" she said. "You should be able to sort out anything!"

"Why?" the Doctor asked.

"Because… well, because you're you!" she said.

The future Doctor grinned at her.

"Thank you," he said. "You just gave me an idea."

--

The (Eighth) Doctor couldn't see a thing. He knew his eyes were fine, so he reasoned that they were covered by… something. Blindfold? Maybe.

"Hello, Doctor," someone said.

"Oh, hello," the Doctor said, a smile in his voice. "How are you? Hope you're well – unwell captors are cranky captors, and that doesn't help the Stockholm Syndrome any…"

"Christ, he babbles more than the last one," a different voice said.

"He's from before the last one," the first voice countered. "Hopefully the one we want won't be quite so talkative."

"What I don't get," a third voice put in, "is why we don't just kill this one."

"That's why _I'm_ in charge," the first voice said. "Because, unlike you clowns, I know a bit about temporal crap. But, since we have an expert here – Doctor, kindly explain the Grandfather Paradox to my associates."

The Doctor would have raised his eyebrows if he thought it would have done any good, but for all he knew, his captors couldn't see them.

"If you went back in time," he began without preamble, "and killed your Grandfather…"

"Why would you wanna kill your Granddad?" the second voice asked. "I liked mine."

"It's the theory that counts," the Doctor insisted. "If you went back, and succeeded in killing him before he fathered your parent, then what happens to you?"

Nobody answered for a moment, and then the third voice said, tentatively… "You wouldn't exist no more?"

Absurdly, the Doctor nodded.

"Exactly. Except, if you don't exist… then who's going to kill your Grandfather?"

"Er…" the second voice put in. "No one?"

"Exactly," the Doctor smiled. "So he lives, your parent is born, then you are. Except… then you go back in time to kill your Grandfather…"

"But then" the second voice added, "you don't exist so your Granddad doesn't die…"

"Except then you do exist so he does," the third voice put in.

"Exactly," the Doctor said. "One massive, headache inducing paradox."

"So that's why we ain't killin' this guy," the first voice said. "Cos that'd make another headache inducin' paradox."

"Oh _I _get it," the third voice said. "But why would the one we're looking for come here?"

"Cos as far as he's concerned," the first voice said, "we're just dumb mafia guys who wouldn't know a paradox if it bit us square in the ass."

"Which you aren't," the Doctor noted. "Cunning. So you expect future me to come save me?"

"Yup," the first voice said.

"And if he doesn't?"

"Then we kill you," the first voice said, a sneer in his tone, "and take a lotta aspirin."

--


	7. Chapter 7

He remembered more now. He hadn't regenerated, as his dreams so often told him, from anything to do with the mafia. That's what you get from post-Regenerative trauma and a nasty crash landing, plus turning into a human; faulty memories, mis-remembering. It hadn't been to do with the spacey Mafia. From anything to do with any of that. They had been a sidestep, a last adventure before his previous self – old Ten – could get on with the important business of dealing with the Ood and they're summons.

Or had it? Maybe he was mis-mis-remembering.

Wait a minute.

Something was wrong.

He remembered Carrie. _Oh Carrie, I'm so sorry. _He remembered what she had been through, all the loss. She had not deserved it. But it had been given to her anyway, and she had gone away like they all did, the Donna's and the Rose's and the Martha's and the Carrie's. All of them left him in the end. But this was different. He had just left. There was no kidnap, no rescue, none of this.

Something was wrong all right.

He dressed himself in the old suit, brown pinstripe that he knew had been in his wardrobe the whole time. The shoes didn't fit. Nostalgia, for a moment. _These shoes! They fit perfectly!_ Old Eight. Brave. True. Noble.

Not noble enough. Not strong enough.

He shook his head. Old thought, not right for the moment. He had to focus, just for a moment.

But…

Something was still wrong.

Oh yeah, Time War. If he was being caught up with his past, he was being caught up with the events of the war which his past had already been involved in, though he didn't know it. Details were changing. Time was fluxing. Big headaches all round, then, especially for him. Might even knacker up his timeline completely, and that would be bad. But, there again, the space mafia boys would doubtless kill Eight if Eleven didn't get a shift on.

Great.

Ah well. Get dressed, Doctor. Get ready to face your audience.

--

"Alright," he said to Carrie once he'd finished and walked down the stairs to the woman waiting for him. "I know the suit's too big, next question please."

Carrie, standing at the bottom of the stairs, looked right at him.

"Uh…"

The suit was definitely too big. Also a little knackered looking, in places. The odd char mark.

"Your suit's a little… tatty, isn't it?" she asked.

"Crash landed, moving swiftly on," the new Doctor said.

"Nothing better in the wardrobe?" she asked.

"No, nothing, and besides which human fashions in this era were appalling."

"I liked the silver suit."

"I tried a silver suit last time – it didn't suit me."

"Pun."

"I know."

"Ok…" Carrie shook her head, and smiled at this new man's apparent mix of zest, youthful exuberance and complete barminess. She wondered briefly at herself, accepting this new Doctor far more easily than she had initially accepted the "Fake" Doctor – but then again, this wasn't a replacement for hers, and he was the genuine thing.

The Doctor meanwhile, was trying to calm down. He was only just returned to being Time Lord, and only four hours into the cycle – his body being reset to where it was rather than noticing he'd been on Earth for five years and had perfectly adjusted to his body. Four hours into the regeneration cycle. Bit woozy. Not sure if there were any more effects yet.

He was forgetting something.

"So what about my Doctor then?" Carrie asked.

Ah.

"Thank you for reminding me," the Eleventh Doctor smiled. "Come on – we'd best get moving."

"Where are we going?" Carrie asked. Eleven smiled.

"We're going somewhere," he said, walking – striding – out into the darkness. "Somewhere important. Somewhere with space mafia."

"Isn't that dangerous?" Carrie asked.

"Oh yeah," the Eleventh Doctor said. "Coming?"

Carrie decided she liked this new Doctor a lot.

--

"Y'know, whatever I did to you in the future," the Eighth Doctor said to his captors, sitting with the blindfold on still, "I'm sure we can come to some amicable arrangement; you don't have to kill either of me. I could leave you lot alone. Forget this whole thing."

"Nice try," the leader of the gang's voice came through. "We know you're a Time Lord though."

"Oh don't go holding that against me," the Doctor cut in. "_They_ might be all be a bunch of pompous windbags, but I'm not..."

"But we know you won't change history," the voice said. "Changing history would knacker up time, leaving the whole thing free for - whaddya call 'em?"

"Reavers?" another voice said.

"Reapers...?" the Doctor said, fear creeping in. "Why wouldn't the Time Lords keep them out?"

"Because..." the second voice said.

"No reason," the leader said. "This one's from right before. It was only the big eared fella and suity boy who new about the - big timey thing."

"Oh," the second voice said.

"Big timey thing?" the Doctor asked. "What big timey thing?"

"You'll find out, presumably," the leader said. "One day in the future."

"But if the Reapers can get in," the Eighth Doctor said, feeling the need to ask, even though he knew he shouldn't, "then that must mean that the defences are failing, but if the _defences _are failing…"

He didn't want to finish that thought.

They were from his personal future. And in that personal future…

He didn't want to finish that thought either.

He felt sick. P0hysically sick. So sick as to not even be believed because what he was thinking was something he simply did not want to think but _too late he's thinking it, no, stop thinking, stop thinking…_

And then, mercifully, there was a noise, a loud banging noise that interrupted that train of thought completely, a loud noise followed by a stunned, echoing silence.

And then a voice.

"Hello, lads," a young, completely recognisable and very welcome voice said. "Did you miss me?"


End file.
